


All Night

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, au!apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Injured in battle, a gorgeous stranger comes to your aid.





	All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @curly-haired-disaster for her apocalypse800 Writing Challenge. My prompt was Carillon Park.

It feels like you’ve been stuck with a just-used fire poker, the pain in your thigh white-hot, and you can already feel your blood soaking your jeans. You’re writhing against the dirt, injured leg clutched between your hands. He skids to your side, thumps down to his knees to inspect the damage.

“Shrapnel,” he mutters, then pulls your face towards his, brushing your hair from your eyes. “You’re gonna be alright, kid. Let’s getcha outta here.”

You wince as he hoists you into his strong arms, let your arms loop around the stranger’s neck.

“The park,” you gasp. “It’s safe. Carollin Park.”

Though it had taken a hefty amount of damage, the park had since been declared a safe zone. A single beacon of peace amidst the screams of battle and stench of death. At one time, medical tents were set up here to treat the sick and the injured. But, over time, supplies had run low, and body counts had risen to the hundreds of thousands.

It had become every man for himself.

You recognize the bell tower immediately - what’s left of it anyway. The bell’s half gone, the bronze blown to jagged edges by Grace-laden artillery. Chunks are missing from its stone pillars, and it’s a wonder that the tower still stands at all.

Smoke curls against the gray sky with the aftermath of the ongoing battle between Angels and humans, and the smell of it mingles with the copper scent of spilled blood.

Your wound pulses and burns with each bounce of the man’s steps as he carries you to the safety of the crumbling tower, and you have to grit your teeth to hold in the whimpers.

The stranger eases you down so that your back is nudged up against the base of the ruined tower, and he helps you scoot back until you’re in a somewhat comfortable position.

Thick fingers poke and pull at the red-tinged denim around the weeping hole in your leg - you can’t look. You may have been a soldier for the last several years, thrown into it, but blood’s never been your thing, so you let your eyes float up to the man’s face.

He’s handsome -  _extremely_  handsome. Green eyes the color of the deepest spruce. His lips are full; plush, and he’s got a jawline sharp enough to cut steel.

“We gotta get these jeans off.”

_What?_

“I…what?”

“I mean, we could cut em, I guess, but-”

“No, this is my last pair. They’ve already got a gaping hole in ‘em.”

“Can you - I don’t wanna…” The man tries, color rising to his cheeks.

“Yeah.” You gasp out a tight laugh. “Yeah, I can.”

Your thigh screams with the effort, but you manage to push the stained denim to your knees (easing them them over the seeping crater in your thigh) while the stranger rids you of your boots. You lean back again, exhausted from the simple action, while he shimmies the material off before rolling them up and setting them aside.

Fire licks at your cheeks as his eyes settle back on you - you’re still covered, but you just feel so  _exposed_.

His fingers are cold against your inflamed skin as they press and stretch around the wound.

“Here,” he says, pulling a small knife from his jacket. “Bite on the handle.”

You do as he says, fit the polished wood between your teeth as he retrieves a small flask from the same pocket.

“Whiskey,” he smiles. “Never leave home without it.”

You try to smile around the handle as he unscrews the cap, but you’re clenching so hard you’re pretty sure you’re leaving little dents into the wood as the cool liquid burns into the tear in your flesh.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I know, s’alright…” His voice is a hushed murmur, and part of you does settle as the sting starts to ebb.

You have to look away then, as his fingers approach the injury.

“I see it,” he says. “I can get it, but it’s gonna hurt like fuck.”

You sharply nod, start to pull in rapid breaths as his fingers press into the oozing cavity. The pain is  _searing_ , intense enough for moisture to gather at your eyes.

“Got it - you’re good, kiddo.” Your jaw relaxes as you pull the weapon from your teeth, toss it to the ground beside you. You make a conscious effort not to look at the teeny bits of metal pinched between his thumb and index finger.

“Thank you,” you pant, still wincing.

He nods as he pours another slosh of whiskey, then fastens the cap before tucking the flask away. “You’re gonna need to keep it clean, but you’re gonna be fine,” he rumbles as he shrugs off his jacket, and peels the flannel shirt off his broad shoulders.

Your breath hitches despite your pain as he easily rips the plaid fabric into strips, defined biceps straining against the sleeves of his olive t-shirt.

You close your eyes and gnash your teeth as the man dresses your wound, and your fists curl and clench against the dirt.

“You okay?” he asks once he’s finished, pulling back to rest on his heels. “I mean, at least a little better?”

“I guess so,” you breathe, let your head softly thunk back against the stone tower.

“We can stay here a while,” he says, runs a hand through his short hair. “You need to rest. I can keep watch.”

You shake your head, fingers playing at the green and black checkers of your bandage. “You don’t have to, it’s safe here. Neither side can draw blood at the park.”

The stranger chuckles deep. “You’re assuming the Angels’ll fight fair.”

“The place hasn’t been touched since the declaration.”

The man sets his eyes on yours and offers you a sad smile.  “Yet.”

You look at him, intrigued. You don’t know who this guy is, where he came from. He was just  _there_ , at the right moment.

Your hero.

You swallow. “Thank you. Y’know. For everything.”

He waves you off, moves over to sit beside you, back slotted against the tower. “S’nothin,” he says finally.

His head lolls toward you when you release a muted grunt.

“Hurtin’ pretty bad, huh?” he asks, voice soft.

“Yeah,” you gasp; pained.

“Want some o’ that whiskey?”

“No, thanks. You should save it for first aid.”

He nods, chews at his plump lower lip.

“So, uh,” he starts, lips stretched in a soft smile. “Tell me about yourself.”

*****

His distraction works for the most part, keeps you focused on something other than the blazing pain. His name is Dean, you learned, and he’s not from your…world. This might have come as a shock to you if your weren’t in the middle of a literal war with actual  _Angels_. There’s a rift apparently, some kind of tear in the atmosphere that serves as a portal between the two dimensions. He’d come through to save some people close to him, to bring them home.

But then he’d gotten caught up in the battle. And now he’s…here.

You’d told him of your previous, boring life, your normal upbringing. You told him how you’d lost everyone. And he listened, the sympathy heavy in his jade eyes. He drank in every word - you’d never felt so… _acknowledged_. Your chest had seized at the flicker of pain rippling across his perfect features, like he was absorbing your own anguish.

It’s getting late, too late to head back as the sky darkens. There’s just a dim haze of pale light filtering through the smoky clouds as the day fades.

It isn’t like you to make the first move, and you don’t know why you’re pressing your lips to his, don’t know why your hand fits so perfectly at the nape of his neck. You do know he tastes good, smells good even with the layers of smoke, dirt, and sweat.

His hands are rough but gentle as he eases you to your back, ever careful of your bum leg as he spreads your thighs before lowering himself over you.

Soft lips are warm at your neck as he trails open-mouthed kisses down the length of it, your skin buzzing under the feather-light touch. He pushes your shirt up under your chin to nip at the swells of your breasts. Your hands fall to his head as he moves, his hair soft under your palms.

He hooks two fingers into the right cup of your bra, peels it down to suck a nipple into the hot cavern of his mouth. You gasp as he swirls his hot tongue of the the pebbling bud, and your fingers curl, nails scraping at his scalp.

Your release a shaky breath when he moves to the unattended breast, and you’re dimly aware that your building arousal is effectively numbing the pain of your injury.

Dean breaks away then, lets your bra fall back into place as he slithers down your body to settle between your parted thighs. He pulls the damp crotch of your panties aside before licking a slow, hot stripe up your folds. Over and over, he licks, his tongue firm and wide, the tip rasping over your clit on every pass.

It’s strange to feel this good with the pain you’re in, in the very middle of a war zone. Sweat has started to bead along your flushed skin as heat floods your veins, and the sound Dean’s making as he licks into your cunt spurs your own as you gasp and whimper at the blackening sky.

Cool air washes over your slick skin as he pulls away just enough to guide a finger into your heat. His lips close over your clit as he starts to pump, a second finger quickly joining in as he works you higher and higher.

The throbbing pain in your thigh quickly vanishes underneath the swelling pleasure, and your rising cries intermingle with the distant bangs of gunfire.

His fingers are curled now, pistoning into you - so  _fast_  - the calloused tips rubbing over and over your g-spot. Your own hands fist at your hair, unsure of what to do with yourself because you’re so hot, ready to just  _burst_ , and it’s too much, but not enough-

Something shifts, hits just right, and you’re coming violently, your bad leg  _screaming_  as it tightens with your climax - but the pain is pale in contrast with the rolling, electric waves of pleasure the man is coaxing from you.

Dean’s fingers slow as he eases you through it, and you blink up at the velvet night sky as you finally come back down.

It’s too dark to really see him now, but you can just make out his silhouette at your side as he drapes his jacket over you, and curls into your side.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, voice rough; gritty.

“Better.” You know he can’t see it, but you smile anyway.

You twist toward him as best you can, get a blind hand on his warm chest. “I really am feeling better y’know, if you wanted to-”

He gets a massive hand around your wrist, brings your hand to his lips where he kisses your knuckles.

“Relax, kid,” he whispers. “We got all night.”


End file.
